Among the Free by Margaret Peterson Haddix

holdupwas. He had a quick flash of fear: Maybe they’re checking I.D.’s after all. Maybe this was just a trap, an elaborate hoax set up by the Population Police to catch people like me. . . .
    The fear didn’t recede much when he saw the reason for the holdup: TV cameras. Simone and Tucker were interviewing people as they came through the gate, and even the people who weren’t being interviewed were slowing down to gawk.
    â€œWe’re not broadcasting this live,” Simone was telling a thin, hunched-over man. “Philip is over by the wall doing the main broadcast right now. We’re just creating a video archive that can be used later, after we edit everything. Philip says this will be like a historical document, almost. So tell me. Why did you come here tonight?”
    The man straightened up a little.
    â€œI came here,” he began slowly, “because the Population Police beat me up when I asked for more food for my wife when she was pregnant. And she was pregnant legitimately. This was going to be my first child. She deserved that food. She needed it.”
    â€œWow, sir—that’s really sad. If you don’t mind me saying so, you do still look kind of, um, scarred up,” Simone said.
    Luke could see the man’s face now. He had a badly healed gash running from his right eyelid down to his mouth. His nose sagged, as though the bones and cartilage inside had given up.
    The man stared straight into the TV camera.
    â€œThat don’t matter,” he said. “What matters is, my baby was born dead. Malnourishment, the doctors said. He—he would have been absolutely fine otherwise. So it’s like the Population Police murdered my son. And I came to see for myself . . . if they really did have plenty of food here the whole time . . . ”
    His face seemed to break up along the lines of scars. It was a horrifying sight, until Luke realized the man was only sobbing.
    â€œI just—had—to—see—,” he wailed.
    Luke stopped standing on tiptoe and turned away. He couldn’t watch anymore. He kept his eyes trained on the gray sweatshirt of the man standing in front of him. He hugged the quilt around himself even tighter as he inched forward. Then suddenly there was a break in the crowd and a bright light shone directly into Luke’s eyes.
    â€œWhat’s your story, young man?”
    Simone’s voice. She was standing there right beside him, holding a microphone out toward his face.
    â€œHuh?” Luke grunted. He could see himself reflected in the lens of the camera, a caveman huddled in an old quilt, with dirt smeared across his face and twigs sticking out of his matted, messy hair. He looked back at Simone, and she was even more beautiful close up than she’d been from a distance or on the TV screen. Her waterfall of blond hair shimmered; her blue eyes twinkled.
    â€œWe’re asking everyone why they came here tonight,” Simone said gently. “What interactions they’ve had withthe Population Police previously, why they’re rejoicing now . . . This is your chance to tell the whole country your story.”
    Luke stared at Simone, too many thoughts tumbling through his head at once. He could admit that he was the one in Chiutza who had refused to shoot the old lady. He could say that he really hadn’t handed the gun to the rebels—that he’d just dropped it and run away, so he didn’t deserve too much credit. He could tell her about what he and Nina and Trey had tried to do at Population Police headquarters, how they’d persevered even when they’d gotten discouraged. He could tell about how his friends had rescued him from a Population Police holding camp. He could tell about seeing two people murdered, right on this property. He could tell about Jen, and how he felt haunted by her even now, nearly a year later.
    He could talk about being a